So Long, Marianne
by Never-Clip-My-Wings-x
Summary: London was cold on that dark November morning, as Sandra Pullman tugged her navy coat around her slender body on the way from the door of her house to her car. It was six o'clock in the morning on the ninth day of November. Nobody knew the significance of that date to her; not her mother, not her colleagues, not even her boys. Jesus, even Jack hadn't known.
1. Chapter 1

London was cold on that dark November morning, as Sandra Pullman tugged her navy coat around her slender body on the way from the door of her house to her car. It was six o'clock in the morning - usually she wouldn't even be awake at this ungodly hour, even on a Monday, but this Monday was the day when she had a meeting with Strickland and a few other Detective Superintendents about some useless new initiative being implemented across the Met. She hated Monday mornings at the best of times, never mind when she had to spend her first few waking hours in a stuffy room drinking some awful instant coffee out of a polystyrene cup.

She sighed as she descended down the greyish white stone steps from the front door of her house, blindly prodding at the buttons on her key fob to unlock the doors of her car. It was the ninth day of November, she realised. Nobody knew the significance of that date to her; not her mother, not her colleagues, not even her boys. Jesus, even Jack hadn't known. She looked down the street, sighing and pressing her dry, chapped lips together and closing her eyes for a second, before opening the heavy car door.

Throwing her massive, expensive black leather handbag onto the passenger seat, she got into her car - it was only a few days old; a brand new, dark blue Audi that had set her back a small fortune. Not that she had anything better to spend her money on, though, and so she bought herself a flashy new car every year without fail. It wasn't as if she had anybody else to treat with her money, was it?

She started the car, and cold air began to blast from the fans, startling her slightly until she gained enough sense and composure to turn them off, and sat in the car in silence for a moment, staring at the clock blankly. 6.01 now, the digital display in the dashboard told her - she ought to get going, or she'd be late for the meeting, meaning that she'd undoubtedly end up stood next to some smelly individual who hadn't bothered to have a shower before turning up, and straining to hear the DAC prattle on about the new system that was being forced upon the force. At least if she was sat down, she'd be able to employ her well-honed skill at sleeping with her eyes open, which had taken many such meetings to perfect.

She glanced quickly in the driver's mirror to ascertain that she wouldn't have her brand new car smashed to smithereens if she pulled out, and caught a glimpse of her face in the reflection. God, she looked knackered - ice blue eyes, cold and bitter, her skin pale and dull, her hair unkempt and sticking up at all angles. She didn't care enough to correct any of these things, as she pulled out into the road and began her moonlight commute to work, the radio playing quietly as she drove.

The street she lived on was posh, by all accounts - townhouses owned by middle class people, leading their mundane, boring lives, having one-point-eight children who they sent to overpriced schools, and generally doing very little from day to day. She'd hate to live like that, being average and uninteresting, doing the same thing over and over again. Having said that, Sandra did realise that these people did have one advantage over her - they were all still in bed at 6am.

She reached the end of her road and came to a halt, watching cars go whizzing past along the main road, driven by commuters equally as tired as she was. She spotted some homeless people curled up against a wall, protected from the bitter weather by thin blankets and old coats with rips in. Seeing those people reminded her just how lucky she really was, sometimes, although she rarely felt it, living alone in her big, empty house. At least she had a roof over her head.

The fans were finally managing to blast out an impressive quantity of hot air (even more than Strickland would be able to, she thought to herself with a smile), but she was still cold. Not on the outside - in fact, she considered stopping to take her coat off - but inside. She was freezing; her heart of stone pumping ice cold blood around her body as she went along, with nothing and nobody to truly love. She couldn't remember being in love, really. It wasn't something she'd felt often - perhaps there'd been one or two men, but she'd never fallen in love, merely tripped, before getting up, dusting herself off, and continuing as if nothing had ever happened.

She turned onto the main road, accelerating past the few pedestrians mad enough to be out at this time in the morning and speeding off down the road towards the station. God, seventeen years ago today. How had that gone so quickly? What the bloody hell had she been doing for seventeen years?

The radio was playing quietly - she didn't remember switching it on, but then again, with the vast array of mainly useless buttons in this car, it could have been anything that triggered it. She'd never understood how morning radio presenters could be so sodding cheerful at 6am - it was a skill she had never mastered. She really wasn't a morning person, though; it took several large doses of caffeine to get her to fully open her eyes, never mind pretend to be cheerful about anything. Some ridiculously cheesy, poppy song was playing - it wasn't the station she usually tuned into, and so she prodded what she assumed was probably the "off" button, which instead retuned the radio to a station playing a song which, if nothing else, matched her mood well.

_"Late night sex smoking cigarettes,_  
_I try so hard but I can't forget,_  
_And in a heartbeat_  
_I would do it all again."_

She bit down on her chapped bottom lip, breathing slowly as she slowed down for the traffic lights. Shit, today was going to be difficult - pretending that everything was fine was just normal life for her; she was a master of disguise when it came to her feelings, and she doubted that anyone really knew what she felt like now. Then again, she didn't quite know what she felt, either. It was like a black hole of total emptiness inside her, taking in her emotions and leaving her with nothing but the feeling that she was so very alone. But pretending that she was fine on the anniversary of the events on this day seventeen years ago? That would take some doing.

She ignored the single tear that fell from her cornflower blue eye as she turned into another road from the junction. It wasn't worth thinking about her feelings - she knew that from bitter experience.

Another song had started playing on the radio - another bloody depressing one, of course. This show may as well have been the Sandra Pullman show; every song that had been played so far this morning had been sad, mournful and depressed, just like her.

_"Now so long, Marianne, it's time that we began_  
_To laugh and cry and cry and laugh about it all again"._

* * *

_**The songs used in this are "Nothing Left To Lose" by The Pretty Reckless, and "So Long, Marianne" by Leonard Cohen. Please review - the next part should hopefully be up within a week. This will be a minimum 20-chapter story, so sit tight!**_

_**Sinéad x**_


	2. Chapter 2

She'd secured the perfect seat for the meeting; in the rear corner of the room, next to a radiator and suitably far away from Strickland and the other high ranking officers at the front of the room, currently waffling on about their new initiative to the room of generally disinterested Superintendents.

Sandra had stared at the ceiling for the entire hour, willing time to pass faster so that she could just get to the office and delve into a case file of some gruesome murder. She'd had seven cups of coffee by the end of the meeting, but still felt cold, empty and numb - anyone else would have been bouncing off the walls on that amount of caffeine, but not her. She was still trying to get seventeen years ago off her mind.

She wandered through the corridors of the station after the meeting, suddenly not so eager to go into her cold, lonely office, and choosing instead to observe her colleagues and the criminals they brought in, hoping that it might jolt her back into reality from wherever she was.

The heels of her boots clicked against the floor as she walked towards the front desk, her eyes not fully taking in everything that she saw, merely seeing it then letting it go. Tramps curled up in cells, having got themselves arrested just so they'd have somewhere safe to sleep. Drug addicts sweating and shaking, desperate for their next fix. Young adults having been nicked for assault in nightclubs over futile things magnified by the amount of alcohol they'd had. Sandra sighed, running a hand through her light blonde hair as she walked, passing front desk and walking on to a corridor where the mostly disused offices were, near the back of the station.

"Pullman?" asked a male voice from behind her, and she stopped dead in her tracks. The accent and voice was one unique to its owner; Welsh, powerful and deep - she didn't even need to turn around to know exactly who was speaking to her. She did, of course, if only to see the formerly familiar handsome face of the man in question.

"Mick Powell. Bloody hell." Sandra responded, spinning on the heel of her boot to turn and face him, flashing the grin that the majority of male officers wanted to have directed at them all the time. That man was the dictionary definition of "tall, dark and handsome", she thought - Jesus, the amount of one-night stands the two had managed over the years had been quite staggering. Hendon, training courses, meetings... hell, they'd even managed to find themselves in what had appeared to be a broom cupboard at the Metropolitan Police Gala the year before last. Even when they were married (to other people, of course), they'd succeeded in having a few encounters... but they hadn't seen each other for almost two years now, since he'd been promoted and moved to a station on the other side of London. And now, here he was, looking ever handsome, right in front of her.

His blueish-green eyes were, as ever, mesmerising, his muscular body strangely giving her the feeling of being pulled by some force of gravity nearer to him. He smiled down at her - he was still nearly six inches taller than her, even when she wore heels; standing at almost six feet and three inches tall, towering over her just above average height. She could almost feel her pupils expanding as her eyes seemed to try and drink more of him up, and gulped as silently as she could manage.

"What are you now, Detective Super or Detective Chief Super?" he asked, placing one hand in the pocket of his dark grey suit trousers casually.

"Chief Super, under Rob Strickland."

"Literally?"

"Piss off," she answered with a slight smile, and she saw the flicker of attraction in his eyes that always seemed to appear just before they found themselves either in bed or locked in a room together, away from everyone else, "What about you? I haven't seen you since you were an Inspector."

"Detective Super, me, now. Unfortunately not under you, mind, but I'm sure that with a little persuasion..." he winked, and she bit her tongue, smirking slightly at him. She'd always loved his way of flirting with her - she wouldn't let any other man get away with talking to her like that, but Mick just had a way.

"Are you married again?" she asked nonchalantly, keeping up her façade of pretending that she was interested merely out of need for conversation fodder. Not that it had ever particularly seemed to matter to either of them whether or not the other was married, though - the sex had been equally good, they'd both admit, and they both saw sex as something physical, rather than emotional. Neither saw it to be cheating on their partners, because there was very little said when they met up, never mind any real emotional exchange between them.

"Mmm-hmm. Her name's Charlotte. You know her, I think; she's a DCI."

"Not Charlotte Bond?" she half questioned, raising her arched eyebrows as he nodded, "You have got to be kidding me. Has she had her nose fixed since I broke it?"

He let out a hearty laugh, running one hand through his thick, chocolate brown hair, knowing full well that Sandra was watching his every move intently, like a bird of prey ready to pounce, which was an odd, twisted metaphor, but seemed to work rather well for her. When they were at Hendon, she'd been the single most fanciable girl there - back then, her blonde hair had been longer, but she was still pretty bloody attractive now, with her long, slender legs, captivating cornflower blue eyes and slightly glossy, full lips. Yes, Sandra Pullman _definitely_ still had it.

"You hated her, didn't you?" he asked, almost rhetorically - Christ, Sandra had floored the woman when they were at Hendon together, for reasons best known between the two women, and as far as he knew, they hadn't spoken since. The now DCS wasn't as much of a bitch as people believed, by nature, but by God, she could be one when someone crossed her.

"She told me that my dad got what was coming to him, Mick. She's lucky I didn't sodding kill her, never mind break her nose."

"Oh," he responded simply, not quite knowing what to say as he observed the flicker of something between fury and sadness in her deep eyes. He knew that Sandra had adored her father - she'd thought the world of that man all her life, and to the best of his knowledge, she still did, no matter what he'd done, "I'm sorry," he added, placing a hand on her shoulder, "I didn't know that, see."

Sandra brushed his unusually sincere words away with a small smile, casting her feline shaped, cool blue eyes to the linoleum floor beneath them, then back up to him, her long, black lashes partially shielding her irises from view.

"Do you want a cup of tea?" he asked innocently, nodding to one of the abandoned offices along the corridor upon which they were stood. She knew that "a cup of tea" was a perfect synonym for "sex" where Mick and her were concerned, and for one moment, she considered being mature for once, and declining the offer. But then again, she also remembered Charlotte Bond.

"Yeah, go on then." she replied, her icy eyes glinting devilishly as he opened the door to her left, nodding for her to enter the small room before he did. She recognised this as an office where they used to keep some smaller firearms - it was now a disused room, with nothing but an old, rickety wooden desk and a reasonably sturdy looking chair stood in the corner. He flicked the lights on, locking the door as he came into the room with her, locking the door behind him and grinning like a teenager as they looked at each other silently for a moment, before slowly walking over to where she stood.

She smiled to herself as he stopped in front of her and placed his left hand on the small of her back, feeling an electric current coursing through both of them at the slight contact, and brought his right hand up to run through her thick blonde locks.

"You always live up to your name, Pullman."

"I do try."  
-

**_This chapter seems a bit useless, I'll admit, but the new character mentioned within it is central to the whole debacle. Please review!_**


	3. Chapter 3

The acrid scent of smoke was lingering in the air of the office - the two coppers had decided to take advantage of the fact that the smoke alarm didn't work, although Sandra didn't, as a general rule, smoke, sharing a Marlboro Red cigarette was somewhat of a tradition when they were together.

They were partially dressed, now - Sandra in her black pencil skirt and unbuttoned cream chiffon blouse, with her black stockings abandoned on the floor along with her high heeled black leather court shoes, and Mick wearing his dark grey suit trousers.

"You're bloody incredible, you are, Sandra." He told her, his strong arms wrapped around her waist as he sat behind her, leant against the greyish wall of the office which seemed to have been forgotten when the Commissioner had ordered repaint after repaint of the stations.

"Better than she is?" Sandra questioned, a slight smirk playing upon her features as she took a drag of the cigarette. She couldn't stand the reek of smoke from anyone else, but where Mick was concerned, it was insanely alluring; like the scent of his musky aftershave on his skin.

"You know I'd have married you just for the sex, if I thought we wouldn't kill each other." It was hardly an answer to the question, but it gave Sandra all of the information she needed - and all of the satisfaction of knowing that Mick preferred her to Charlotte Bond. Neither Sandra or Mick were great romantics - infidelity was almost certain whenever either of them were in a relationship, and neither thought they'd ever truly been in love with anyone.

"You're not so bad yourself." she answered, handing him the cigarette as she pulled her black stockings towards her and began to put them on slowly, not once breaking eye contact with the man watching her intently as she did so, exhaling the smoke from his cigarette in impressive rings. She rolled the stockings up her slim legs; the lace tops gripping her thighs impressively as she flexed her long legs.

"My God, how have you not given your pensioners heart attacks yet?"

"It might astound you that I don't tend to reveal my stockings to them."

"Oh. Well, that's my retirement plans buggered, then."

* * *

Well, she wasn't going to be able to walk for about a week, but it had bloody well been worth it. She was sat at her desk - it was just after eight am, and she was alone in the office but for her large cup of coffee in her favourite purple mug. The heat of the mug didn't bother her as she held it in her cold hands - although it was boiling and her body was freezing, she could barely feel it, because she wasn't thinking about here and now. She wasn't even thinking about Mick. She was thinking about what had happened on this day back in 1996.

It had been cold then, too, but she hadn't been outside much on that day. Yes, cold and cloudy, with no rain or sunshine - she'd seen it out of the window as she'd sat there on her own, cold and shivering.

"Sandra."

It was Mick who spoke, stood in her doorway casually, leaning against the wood and looking at her with his deep blue eyes. She froze for a second - he never came to see her, usually, for anything but sex, but she could see, even from a distance, that his eyes were serious; he wasn't flirting now. Something was going on. She gulped, putting her mug of coffee down on the desk, a little of the boiling liquid spilling over onto her bare hand and scalding the skin.

"Mmm-hmm?" she responded; her mind totally blank as to what else she could say. She wasn't good at all this emotional clap-trap, she thought to herself as he walked over to her desk, stopping just short of the chairs.

"Charlotte wants your blood. She knows we were at that meeting together - she's convinced that you're going to try and steal me off her..." he trailed off, rubbing his hand over his face in an uncharacteristically nervous manner, "I'm just warning you. She's going to try and trip you up with whatever she can with this investigation, and I don't mean just stalling it. You know her well enough, Sandra. Be careful." His tone was unusually solemn; something she'd only heard from him a few times before, and it unnerved her in a way she wasn't used to at all.

She stood up, leaving her high heels under her desk and softly walking over to where Mick stood, looking up at him with a slight smile, before looking down at the floor and establishing what her next words were going to be.

"You know that I'm no good at emotions, Mick. Never have been," she paused, bringing her shaking right hand up to the lapel of his suit jacket where it covered his shirt and straightening it out with her long, manicured nails, "I'm not going to break up your marriage. And I promise I'll be careful about this case." She finally met his eyes; ice blue against his darker, deeper irises, and the silence said everything.

He pulled her body close to his for a moment, feeling her freeze at the contact before relaxing into him. The scent of her was tantalisingly beautiful; her hair products mixed with her expensive perfume in a perfect, toxic cocktail of Sandra Pullman that nobody could quite understand. He missed their younger days; those days twenty or so years ago when nothing and nobody mattered because they were young and free. Everything had changed since then - they'd both married and divorced, been promoted, nearly been sacked, and changed beyond measure.

The lights flickered in her office, and he was sure that he felt her shake ever-so-slightly against him, but he knew that if she was crying, which he sincerely doubted, she wouldn't want him to say or do anything. So instead he just kissed her light blonde hair softly; the woman who'd been his tormentor, best friend and catalyst for failing relationships for so many years. She meant more to him than either of his wives had, and she knew it, but they both knew also that as a couple, they could never work. Knowing that gave their relationship a depth that few other people could have.

"I've got to go," he murmured, releasing her, "I'll see you soon."

The flicker of hurt in her eyes which she disguised so well killed him - his heart sank, because he knew that, deep down, hidden and disguised, she needed to be loved. How long had it been since that day, now? Sixteen, seventeen years? He didn't know; time seemed to go by so fast nowadays that it could just as easily have been last week for all he knew. She was tired - not only physically, but emotionally, she was drained, and it broke his heart not to be able to fix her.

"Yeah." she gave him a small smile, and their eyes locked for a second before they both turned away; he walked slowly out through the main office whilst she sat down slowly at her desk, picking up her mug and sipping the hot, black coffee from the mug.

Words couldn't express how she felt at the moment. Turmoil, perhaps... but that didn't seem to quite be able to encompass the feeling of swirling, all-consuming emptiness inside her. The case they were working on now was that of murders committed in 1993; teenagers and young adults killed in cold blood in Soho, all of them found hanging by their feet, but having had their throats cut. The photos were pretty gruesome, but Sandra couldn't bring herself to even feel the customary trained sympathy.

Instead, she sat back and drew her long, stocking-clad legs up underneath her body, wrapping her arms around herself. She was shaking from the caffeine she'd consumed in all that coffee, but she still felt numb and empty. She still felt alone. Despite what everyone thought, she wasn't as tough as she made out - she was human, and needed to be loved. She didn't want to be on her own, but she couldn't fathom how to cope with another person, because emotions didn't come easily to her.

She felt a single tear roll down her cheek and she sighed deeply, trying to keep her breathing steady and controlled.

She couldn't live like that any more.


End file.
